


Called Out in the Dark

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Correspondence, Couch Surfing, Epistolary, Exile, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Season/Series 02, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I was called out in the dark / by a choir of beautiful cheats</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Called Out in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to bridge the gap between Season 2 and Season 3, but I've come to the same conclusion at which I usually arrive every time I attempt to write in a television fandom for a show that's still actively airing: all that exists of this is probably all that _will_ exist of it, and I will start writing _Sherlock_ stories again when either **a)** the show is finally over / canceled, or **b)** at such time as I get pissed off at the screenwriters and decide to ignore everything after a certain point ( _i.e._ [**like I did with _Community_**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/works?fandom_id=775667)). I know that my strength lies in working with closed canons, and I do think that this is readable as complete. It leaves many future events open to interpretation, but it explains a lot about their future as I imagine it.

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 14:34  
Subject: (none)

Thank you.

\- your very much estranged and apologetic cousin, etc.

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 15:03  
Subject: Re: (none)

...right. I didn't know you read Penny Rimbaud.

...you're welcome.

Where _are_ you?

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 15:10  
Subject: Re: Re: (none)

Nowhere particular. Around.

That said, it's getting difficult.

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 15:32  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Difficult how? You need to be specific. 

I can't help you otherwise.

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 15:40  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

I've caught a few people staring.

Is that specific enough?

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:01  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Are you keeping warm? Are you eating? Are you staying away?

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:22  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Staying away? From?

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:25  
Subject: This is ridiculous.

Who's being stupid now?

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:29  
Subject: Re: This is ridiculous.

Fine, yes, good. You see through me. Don't expect congratulations.

I need...sanctuary. Can't keep this up. Any ideas?

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:41  
Subject: Re: Re: This is ridiculous.

Come to my flat. I never have company.

It's the last place anyone in the family would look.

(Oh, am I glad it's home-time soon...)

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:43  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: This is ridiculous.

No need to send the address.

Tonight. Keep your ears open, have the kettle on.

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:55  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: This is ridiculous.

I've been so worried about you. Actually, not just about you.

I'll be waiting. With tea.

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 16:58  
Subject: Wait, stay just a moment - 

How is he?

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk, molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 June 2011 17:00  
Subject: Re: Wait, stay just a moment - 

No worse than when you left him, little brother.

(Have fun with our dear cousin. I'll be in touch.)

* * * 

John woke from his dozing with a start.

Mrs. Hudson's grandfather clock, striking five. He rubbed his eyes and stared blearily at the ceiling, comforted somewhat by the rattling sounds and heavenly aromas drifting in from the kitchenette. Slow cooker again, something to do with beef and onions and a hint of soy sauce. Yes, Sherlock had certainly ruined him for surprises—

He closed his eyes and pressed them hard with both fists.

“Oh, John.”

It was a soft murmur from the doorway, scarcely audible. He thought that she'd been busy with cooking, humming along to _Someone Like You_. Adele sang on in the background, muted by the orange glow that framed Mrs. Hudson. 

Her eyes gleamed in the low light.

“I'm sorry,” said John, hastily sitting up. “Really, truly sorry. Just a few more days.”

“Stay as long as you like, dear,” she said gently, crossing the room to sit down beside him on the sofa. Her hip was bothering her again, judging by the hitch in her step. “But I worry about you getting back on your feet. It's not that I don't think you can afford to keep the flat, and—oh, that's _dreadful_ , not what I meant to say at all—”

John didn't try to stay the tears this time, not with Mrs. Hudson crying, too.

“Just, what is it,” he gasped, “and why can't I—”

“Don't do that, love,” she said, leaning on his shoulder. “You'll ruin your supper.”

John hastily wiped his eyes, unable to stifle an exasperated laugh.

“Yeah, I suppose I will. What are we having, then?”

Mrs. Hudson served the dish over brown rice. She said her sister had got it from a pen-pal in America, that it was intended for use with venison, but it didn't seem right, did it, cooking up the King's Deer (well, Her Majesty's Deer) with New World flair.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said, his mouth half full, “this is just _cracking_.”

“There's no call for flattery here,” she said. “I could've just brought out the cakes—”

And they were silent, staring at one another, as the shadow of memory fell.

John scraped the last few grains of rice around on his plate, studying the trails his fork left in residual sauce with a sigh. “The bakewells will have gone off, don't you think?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hudson, after a lengthy pause. “I suppose they will have done.”

For the rest of the evening, it was tea, telly, and careful avoidance. They'd tried reruns of Bruce Parry's _Tribe_ , but that had ended quickly in disaster. Likewise _QI_ and _River Monsters_ : there was no point to entertaining the notion of exotic locations or encyclopedic knowledge. It all led back to the ghost in the room, one way or another.

“I went up and dusted,” Mrs. Hudson confessed during the adverts. She bit her lip and cradled her two-thirds empty cup in both hands. “I couldn't stand the thought...”

“Of what?” John asked, resolutely staring straight ahead. He hated those bloody meerkats, but needs must. Maybe the GoCompare opera twat would turn up next.

“It's so empty up there; I can't stand it! Not a footstep! I'd give anything to hear his violin at all hours, even your voices raised—God help me, I miss the shouting!”

And she promptly burst into tears.

John got up, strode into the kitchenette, and opened the refrigerator door.

Two tiny bakewells left on the plate, scarcely covered by withering cling film.

He dumped them in the bin and started on the dishes, kept the tap running full blast.

* * *

I made myself very clear: if you tried  
to give me the slip, I'd find other means  
of tracking you. Now, be a good sport  
and keep your appointment, won't you?

M

 

*

 

Don't you have some more pretend  
grieving to do? Crocodile tears suit you.

S

 

*

 

Charming. If you fail to turn up on  
Miss Hooper's doorstep, I shall be  
forced to take you into custody.

M

 

*

 

And risk outing me to your cronies?  
Dear me. After the whole jet fiasco,  
aren't you in bad enough odour?

S

 

*

 

A little respect for the dead, if you would.

M

 

*

 

I'll ask the same of you, then.

Leave me alone.

S

 

*

 

I see you've reached her doorstep.

Fair is fair.

M

* * *

By the time the buzzer sounded, Molly had steeped six mugs of tea. Never re-heat it if your guest's late, her mum always said. She rushed from the kitchen, tray in hand, sloshing a little as she deposited it hastily on the armchair.

The buzzer gave way to knocking directly on her door.

She wrenched the doorknob, breathless. Who could've let him in?

“Good evening,” Sherlock said, removing his hat.

“You...” Molly blurted, immediately covering her mouth.

“Yes?” He stiffened his jaw, as if bracing for a slap.

“You look terrible,” she said, swaying back against the door. “Come in.”

There was his hair, for one thing, or what was left of it: she watched in horror as he deposited his hat (one of those horrible things with dangly ties and llamas embroidered on), coat (not his own, not even anything recognizable as something John might wear), and rucksack on her desk. He'd cut his own hair from the look of things, and he'd done a dreadful job. Wrinkled jeans a size too big, flannel shirt that hung from his frame in mockery of a scarecrow's rags. Where on earth...

“Out of those clothes,” she said the moment he stepped too close.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you'd never ask. Where's your laundry room?”

“Washing machine's in the kit—kitchen.” She grabbed her mug off the tray and walked over to the sofa, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. “Just bin them. The bathroom's upstairs. If you haven't got a change, I suppose I could pop out—”

“Of course I have,” Sherlock said. He took the second mug, tasted it, made a face, vanished into the kitchen for less than five minutes, and then fetched his rucksack off the desk before vanishing up the stairs, tea in hand.

Molly drank her tea in silence, couldn't keep her hands from shaking. She wondered what her mum would have to say about this. Nothing good, she suspected.

Sherlock reappeared twenty minutes later in a ratty (but clean) tee and pyjama bottoms, barefoot, with mug in hand. He removed the tray from the armchair and took a seat. There was strain in every line of him, fatigue in every gesture.

“So you've been keeping warm, but you've not been sleeping,” Molly said.

“Or eating,” said Sherlock, with a shrug. He took a sip of cold tea.

“I can get you another—”

“Don't bother. I won't finish it.”

“That's fine,” Molly said, forcing a smile. “As long as you finish this one.”

Sherlock raised the mug in her direction, and then did as he was told.

“You know by now that my brother is monitoring your electronic correspondence. Scratch that: my brother is monitoring _all_ of your correspondence. In fact, he's monitoring _you_ , twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Is that troubling?”

“No,” Molly replied, setting her empty mug on the coffee table. “I'm grateful.”

“Would you be so magnanimous if you knew he'd leaked my life story to Jim Moriarty, regardless of his motives in having done so, regardless of such actions' necessity?”

Molly flinched. “Is this where I'm supposed to ask how deep the rabbit hole goes?”

“If you like,” Sherlock said, leaning back in the chair, legs crossed.

“I think I'd rather not know, thanks,” Molly said. “Not unless I absolutely need to.”

“Wise choice,” Sherlock replied. “But I'd have told you, and I may yet.”

Molly nodded and lowered her eyes again. Was there no end to his mercurial manner, condescending one moment and gracious the next? She'd never get used to it, even after what she'd done. What _they'd_ done. The magnitude of it still shook her.

“Molly,” Sherlock repeated, bringing her thoughts back into focus.

She snapped out of her reverie. “Yes?”

“You're certain,” he pressed, “that you won't be entertaining guests? No unfortunate suitors? No wild soirées at which decent folk ought not to be caught dead?”

It took a full thirty seconds of hurt gawking before she realized he'd attempted a joke.

The two of them burst out laughing, and she wondered if this was what she was missing: the inscrutable reason why John Watson had chosen to stay with him, come hell or high water. Molly mopped at her eyes. 

“God,” she said. “I needed that.”

Sherlock smiled thinly. He'd produced a mobile phone—not _his_ mobile, as such, not as Molly knew it, but _a_ mobile nonetheless—from somewhere and was clicking away intently. In spite of Sherlock's obvious exhaustion, his composure was impressive.

She'd expected that sadness...

“Sherlock, listen,” Molly began, folding her hands, “I want to make something clear.”

His head flew up, fingers still working on the keys. “Yes?”

“You need not hide it, you know,” she said. “Not from me.”

Sherlock's fingers went still. He nodded, his mouth contorting, and Molly couldn't tell whether it was a grimace or a frown, grief or anger. She studied his eyes.

“You said it wasn't just me,” said Sherlock.

Molly blinked back sudden tears. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said it wasn't just me,” Sherlock repeated. “That you were worried about.”

Molly wrapped her hands together tightly, twisting till her knuckles went white.

“I shouldn't have said that. I got a bit cross, that's all.”

“You wouldn't lie at a time like this. It was to be a trade, see—the remainder of my information for yours. But you've opted out. This poses a problem, no _quid pro quo_.”

Molly shook her head. _I forbid my tears_. Sixth-form English. She was stronger than that frightened young man who'd lost his sister to love of a brilliant prince and to grief for their father. For _her_ father. For the lover she'd never have.

Molly closed her eyes and covered her mouth, and Sherlock's hand lit on her arm.

“Molly,” he said, just a breath away ( _Kneeling on the floor_ , she thought; _oh, my mad prince, he's come undone for love of another and now_ —), “I need to know. I need...”

Their hands were tangled, in her lap and in her skirt, and, oh, his fingers _shook_.

“He comes into Bart's a few times a week,” Molly said. “Mike Stamford's behind it. Thinks it'd be good for him, of course. Gave him run of the newsletter.”

“Which newsletter? The patient newsletter or the regional newsletter or—”

Molly laughed bitterly. Right out of a fairytale, he was. Just like the man she'd slit from breastbone to gullet without even checking for a pulse. But Sherlock, at least, was a hero on a quest, even if a flawed one, not some villain with a hateful grudge.

“The staff newsletter,” she said. “No danger of him interacting with the public.”

“I see,” Sherlock murmured, letting go of her hands. “Yes.”

Molly pulled out the sofa-bed and made it up in silence while Sherlock banged inexplicably around the kitchen. It sounded like he was attempting to do the washing up, but she wasn't sure what she might find if she bothered to check the dish rack come morning. Her pulse quickened. Probably chips and cracks.

“Best I can do,” she said, gesturing to the duvet, which she'd just laid out. 

Sherlock lingered in the doorway, his hands raw from hot water and too much Fairy.

“It's more than I've had since the fall,” he said simply.

Such a direct, unflinching statement, and so much pain beneath.

“What did he see?” Molly asked, stepping around the foot of the bed to face him. “Sherlock, how much did he—I can't be certain he couldn't have felt it, he touched you, and even though I followed your instructions to the letter, I can't promise—”

“Good night, Molly,” Sherlock said, and turned out the light.

Molly felt her way towards the staircase as she listened to him settling in, cursed the hot, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Oh, she knew why Ophelia had drowned. 

She _knew_.

* * *

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 09:48  
Subject: Good morning, Inspector.

Do you know where your hound is?

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 09:55  
Subject: Re: Good morning, Inspector.

Six feet under, God rest his soul. I suppose you think this is funny?

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 09:59  
Subject: Re: Re: Good morning, Inspector.

Not in the least. Allow me to rephrase that: 

I was referring to the one you've trained with such care.

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:10  
Subject: Okay, you've got me

Last time I checked, answer was still the same. Can you prove me wrong?

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:16  
Subject: Re: Okay, you've got me

Infinitely, Inspector. Would that shock you?

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:21  
Subject: Re: Re: Okay, you've got me

After dealing with you lot? Not much, but maybe a little.

Jesus, you've got to tell him. Please tell me you've told him.

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:28  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Okay, you've got me

At this fragile, early stage, that would be most unwise.

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:32  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Okay, you've got me

Sod off. 

Couldn't you have spared a minute to call? In fact, news like this is best delivered in person. Why not just send your latest PA to kidnap me? Or suggest a rendezvous?

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:40  
Subject: How disappointing...

You haven't been paying attention. I already did.

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:52  
Subject: Re: How disappointing...

 

Saturday's tomorrow, mate. Rather short notice, don't you think?

(And here I was, over the moon to think you might be a fan of _Across the Universe_.)

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 10:55  
Subject: Re: Re: How disappointing...

Your attendance is not up for discussion.

(Hardly high art, but the film has its moments, one grudgingly must admit.)

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 11:00  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: How disappointing...

What about a time, then? You seem to have left that out.

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 11:02  
Subject: Good man.

Noon. Bring coffee.

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 11:08  
Subject: Re: Good man.

You're just as bad as someone else I know.

\- Greg

 

*

 

From: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
To: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
Date: 24 June 2011 11:11  
Subject: Re: Re: Good man.

Fortunately, he's as bad as ever.

Saturday.

 

*

 

From: greg.lestrade@met.police.uk  
To: saturdayatbishopsgate@gmail.com  
Date: 24 June 2011 11:14  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Good man.

I'll be there.

\- Greg

* * *

John had been in the computer lab almost all afternoon.

His eyes had begun to swim with blurred text whenever he looked away from the screen; if only the walls were a darker shade, he wouldn't have to endure such nonsense. That week's Bulletin was overloaded with tripe and nonsense, particularly the Classifieds. It would take a lot of doing to keep from writing smart replies. 

It would have taken a lot of doing to prevent _Sherlock_ —

“Knock knock?” said a soft, familiar voice from the entrance.

“Ah, Molly,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “Come in. It's been a while.”

“I brought you some tea,” she said, setting the Bart's standard-issue mug down beside him. “On the stronger side, no sugar. No milk, either. The bite will keep you alert.”

John glanced up at her in surprise. “How did you—”

Molly glanced quickly aside. 

“Sherlock told me once,” she said. “How you take your tea and coffee, I mean.”

John shut his eyes again. “Sherlock knows—knows, no, _knew_ —how I take my tea?”

“Must come of living with somebody for that long,” Molly said, her voice fading fast. “Oh, God, I'm sorry. Forget it. I won't talk about him anymore. I'm _sorry_ , I won't—”

John wiped the tears from his cheeks and looked at her again, forcing a smile.

“No, it's just...he didn't even know how I took my coffee until recently, much less...”

"I can't stand seeing you like this,” Molly said, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“No,” John said, resolutely wiping away the fresh onslaught. “No, you needn't apologize. Certainly not to me. This loss, we share. You knew and loved him, too.”

John heard Molly's breath catch, and her fingers dug involuntarily into his scar.

“I'm not sure many people loved him. Liked him, maybe, or grudgingly admired him.”

John covered Molly's hands with his own. 

“Don't try to hide it. Not now. You didn't, even then. Not very well, at least.”

Behind him, Molly laughed, but the sound was halfway between a hiccup and a sob.

“I'm going to forget you said that.”

“Why?” John asked, turning to look at her. _Awkward angle_ , he thought.

Molly's expression was one he'd never seen; he'd been sure he'd learned them all.

“I'll say things I shouldn't,” she replied hastily. “I had better go; they're bringing me a few bodies after lunchtime, but...” She trailed off. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. It's an offer I once made _him_ , so I at least owe it to you.”

John patted her hand and released it. “That's...kind of you, Molly. Cheers.”

Molly's lips came to rest on top of his head as she squeezed his good shoulder.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” she whispered. “I can't even begin to tell you.”

And before John could remind her that they shared it, she was gone.

* * *

Hello, Sherlock. How are you keeping?

M

 

*

 

I cannot possibly tell you how devoid  
of entertainment this flat is. Send help.

S

 

*

 

Some board games for you and the lady  
to play when she's off shift, perhaps?

M

 

*

 

Sod off. I meant more along the lines  
of unsolved case files from Lestrade's  
personal stock, seeing as the two of you  
are so tight these days. You can even  
take the credit for solving them, if you  
like. My sanity is at stake; you've already  
assisted in my untimely demise, so be a  
dear, would you, and get me some WORK.

S

 

*

 

You and the Inspector share a fondness  
for the vilest phrases. I'll do what I can.

M

 

*

 

Oh? So he's been telling you where you  
can stick it, too? I'd have paid to hear that

no, wait, something's wrong here

You've been meeting with him? Why?

S

 

*

 

For your protection, little brother.

Why else?

M

 

*

 

Damn it, Mycroft.

Does he know?

 

*

 

Delete your last sent message. Now.

M

 

*

 

Right, sorry, no names. My bad.

Does he?

S

 

*

 

DOES HE?

S

 

*

 

He does now. 

And, no, I will not tell you why.

M

 

*

 

You are a bastard and a half. You are  
quite possibly the most prodigious wanker  
in the history of wanking. I hate you.

S

 

*

 

Ah, memory lane! You were ever so charming at 15.

M

 

*

 

Shut up.

S

 

*

 

Gladly. In the meantime, you're to sit tight,  
and I'll see what I can provide by way of  
distraction, as I know you haven't the sense  
to solicit any from your kind hostess.

M

 

*

 

Very low, Mycroft.

Very low indeed.

S

 

*

 

Delete it, or I will be sorely tempted  
to make true the lie. Don't tempt me.

M

* * *

It wasn't until early the next week, until after Mycroft's inevitable shipment of distractions arrived in far too many boxes, that Molly returned from work one evening to notice half her kitchen work-top space had been colonized by the dodgiest assortment of makeshift lab equipment she'd ever seen.

And there were unwashed mugs _all over the flat_. Even one on the bottom stair.

“You could wash them as you use them,” she said casually, thumping half a dozen of them down beside Sherlock as he worked. He jumped, rounding on her with a glare.

“I'll have to redo the entire set of slides,” he snapped. “Thank you for that.”

“My, aren't you gracious these days,” Molly said, busy opening the take-away bag. “I've picked up tofu fried rice and chicken lo mein. What's your poison?”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock muttered, wiping several slides clear with a paper towel.

“Fine, in the fridge it goes,” Molly said. “Don't come fussing to me when _Bacillus cereus_ gives you a nice tummy bug.”

“I doubt you see much of that in the mortuary,” Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly lethal in times like ours, and rarely found if rice is kept for fewer than seventy-two hours.”

His tone set Molly's teeth on edge. Then again, maybe it was that he'd been in her house for nearly three bloody weeks, and he hadn't done the dishes more than once. Twice if you counted the spill he'd just cleaned up. She decided she wouldn't.

“Speaking of the mortuary, I was wondering...” Molly paused; there was really no graceful way to broach it, but at least they'd entered conversational space that was beyond propriety, and she was out for low-grade revenge. “How did you identify that Adler woman? I mean, it's part of my business to reconstruct features, at least in my own mind, and I've seen some pretty sad cases, but she was...beyond recognition.”

Sherlock sighed, steepling his fingers, which meant she was in for an explanation he considered tedious and unnecessary. “First of all, you've clearly not been filled in: it wasn't her. Irene Adler faked her own death. Months later, she almost got herself killed somewhere else, but that's another story. I daresay that, wherever she is, she's annoyed that I've stolen her trick—if she's paying close enough attention, that is; if not, she'll think I'm dead like everybody else does, more's the pity. Second of all, given I made a positive identification on a body that wasn't hers, that's...a mistake. Yes, I've been known to make them; don't stand there with your jaw on the floor. Miss Adler was clever in her presentation, let us say, at our first meeting. She removed any and all markers that would have given me anything substantial to go on.”

“Such as?” Molly prompted.

“Her clothing. She walked in stark naked, and she'd also recently bathed—thoroughly, too, which meant that any evidence of the day's activities thus far had been removed. There was the fact of her expensive earrings, but what of that? I already knew her profession, which pays well. She must be very good at what she does indeed, as she'd been careful not to let any of her clients or lovers leave so much as the slightest mark on her skin. The body in the mortuary matched her measurements and similarly bore no marks, aside from severe trauma to the head. Obviously.”

Molly swallowed, felt her cheeks begin to burn. How easily he'd turned the tables!

“Were you one of her clients?” she asked, finally. “Or one of her lovers?” 

“Clearly not,” Sherlock said, not bothering to stifle his laughter. “If I had been, I'd hardly have made such a glaring error. To put it simply, she's not my type. Not John's, either, if you can believe it; although he seemed uncomfortable in her unclothed presence, it wasn't on account of arousal.”

Molly cleared her throat. “Then what _is_ your type?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as he usually did, but didn't back down.

“Molly, if you fit such requirements, we would have been involved long since.”

Molly opened her mouth, shut it, and then took a deep breath. _Truth will out_.

“If you don't mind my asking, what is it about me...?”

“You're not...” Sherlock cut himself off, eyes widening. “Never mind. Not important.”

And he closed up again, quick as a wink, just like he had always done.

“I'm sorry,” Molly said, covering her eyes with her free hand. “I shouldn't pry.”

“No,” said Sherlock. "It's fine. Flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

Molly uncovered her face slowly, peering out between her fingers.

Sherlock was grinning at her, grinning like she'd never seen, and it was genuine.

If she never got anything else out of Sherlock Holmes for the rest of her life, she hoped she'd continue to get such amazed, delighted laughter. And she knew why.

Being treated to a bit of John Watson's private reserve was _glorious_.

Even if he was a bad flatmate. And an enormous git.

* * *

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 20:52  
Subject: Right...

I feel like a fool for sending this, using an email account borrowed from your brother, no less, but here goes nothing. I half hope you don't respond, but if you do...

Is this who I think it is?

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:09  
Subject: Re: Right...

Who do you think it is? 

Many individuals have more than one brother.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:15  
Subject: Re: Re: Right...

Yeah, but not the bastard I borrowed this from.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:18  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Right...

WRONG. Bastard and a _half_.

No other quantity could suffice (unless he's been hitting the Tunnock's).

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:23  
Subject: RIGHT.

Bloody hell, it _is you_. If I so much as see your face, I'll smash it.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:27  
Subject: WRONG.

You'd only be doing me a favour, given the circumstances.

I've missed you, too, if you can believe it.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:30  
Subject: Re: WRONG.

Christ, don't tell me all this death-and-resurrection stuff has gone and given you a change of heart. I mean, I've heard about where you're staying. Really? _Really_?

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:32  
Subject: Re: Re: WRONG.

Bit jealous, are we? But, then, there _was_ Christmas...

I thought as much. Ha!

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:35  
Subject: We'd better nix that.

You don't gloat as well on paper. Er, screen. You know what I mean.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:39  
Subject: Why?

Why are you even contacting me, given the risk, if not to gloat and to be the object of gloating in return? That's been the nature of our relationship from the beginning.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:42  
Subject: Re: Why?

Warms the cockles of my heart, seeing you all earnest and sentimental. 

I'm writing to see how you are, you cock, and to see if there's anything I can do.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:46  
Subject: Re: Re: Why?

Beyond what you've already been assigned to do?

No thanks.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:51  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Why?

Does the jealousy go both ways, or am I imagining things?

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 21:56  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Why?

Go away. You're a waste of my cousin's precious, limited bandwidth.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:01  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Why?

Seriously, though. Do you miss your brother?

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:07  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Why?

I'm done with kiss-and-tell interviews.

(But if you'd be so kind as to keep the files coming, I might deign to answer.)

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:10  
Subject: Deal.

Done and done. _Do_ you?

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:12  
Subject: Re: Deal.

No. I've seen his stupid smirk one too many times since this farce was set in motion.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:12  
Subject: Re: Re: Deal.

He's right, though. You must've been precious as a teenager.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:14  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Deal.

I don't know; was I? You read the article, I assume.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:17  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Deal.

No, actually. I didn't. Just skimmed it.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:20  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Deal.

...thanks. I think.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:23  
Subject: Knew it.

Yep. Precious.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:28  
Subject: Re: Knew it.

I'll thank you to contact me only when it's absolutely necessary.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:30  
Subject: Re: Re: Knew it.

Fair enough. Speak to you soon, I'm sure.

Precious.

\- G

 

*

 

From: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
To: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:33  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Knew it.

Scratch Christmas; I must've been mistaken.

You two were _meant_ for each other, as far as I'm concerned.

Enjoy the scenery as viewed from over the expanding waistline, etc.

 

*

 

From: neverrainsbutitpours@yahoo.co.uk  
To: andnowitrains@yahoo.co.uk  
Date: 14 July 2011 22:36  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Knew it.

Touché.

\- G

* * *

John sat hunched on the sofa, scrolling through old texts.

He couldn't bring himself to delete them. Not yet, anyway. 

( _Or perhaps never_ , he thought.)

The door opened behind him: Mrs. Hudson, back from shopping. Someone else was with her; John could feel the weight of a second set of eyes, hear the other party's breathing in counterpoint to hers (swift and anxious, almost familiar). Mrs. Turner, perhaps? John didn't look up, scrolling on to the second-to-last message.

 

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

 

“John, dear, I _do_ hate to bother you, but this young lady...”

John turned, knowing in that instant why the visitor's breathing sounded familiar.

“You didn't even invite me to the wake,” said Harry, with a solemn half-smile.

“Friend of yours, was he?” John asked, standing up straight, hands clenching at his sides in helpless indignation. “You and everybody else who read the bloody article?”

“Now, calm yourself down,” said Mrs. Hudson, bustling past him. “I'll make some tea.”

“Fine,” John said, standing his ground as Harry approached. “Tea. Just what we need.”

“John, you're a mess,” she said softly, reaching for his hands.

“Mrs. Hudson didn't call to invite you over,” John said, flinching away.

“And how would you know that? Deduction?”

John wanted to punch her; God, he wanted to _send her flying_.

He clasped his hands tightly behind his back.

“No, actually,” he said coolly. “It was because I told her not to.”

“Well, she's good at following your instructions. _I_ called _her_.”

John nodded, feeling his jaw clench and unclench. Uncontrollable. _Unbelievable_.

“If you think you can go on like this, you're mistaken,” Harry said, taking a seat on the sofa. “Nobody knows that better than I do.”

“Yes,” John agreed, sitting down beside her. “I wish you'd save your breath.”

She didn't look at him, but kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Well, Mum and Dad aren't around anymore to knock sense into you. That leaves me.”

John stared at Harry's profile. She was the handsome one, no doubt of it. _Curse her._

“Oh, yeah. You've got sense by the bucketful, haven't you?”

“Far more than you have. Run around with that nutter? Nearly get yourself killed, and how many times? Character assassination by association? You're so far gone—”

“And I'd prefer to _stay_ there, _thank_ you!” John shouted.

Harry turned her head. She wasn't in tears; she rarely resorted to that.

But, ah, that _look_. She could still do it, and she'd use it without mercy.

“If you loved him, John, then maybe I'd get it. I'd just about understand.”

John let his head drop in defeat, staring at the neatly hoovered carpet.

“Harry, would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Of course. Your landlady's already invited me.”

“Tea's on, loves,” said Mrs. Hudson, bustling into the room.

John's eyes followed Harry's, and he understood how they must look. 

Two peas in a pod.

And then: “Oh, dear. I'll just leave the tray, shall I?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” they said almost in unison.

* * *

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 12:43  
Subject: You seem frazzled. Is everything all right?

I would've loved a coffee and catch-up, but you just blanked me in the caf.

(Is there anything I can do, rearrange the timetable so you haven't got night shifts for a few weeks, etc.? That new trainee could use some extra hours alone with the stiffs, bloody well get used to it. You're still the best student I've ever had.)

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 13:06  
Subject: Re: You seem frazzled. Is everything all right?

Hi, Mike,

Oh, God, I'm so sorry! Forget my own head next, what an idiot - I should've been paying closer attention. Would you like to meet for lunch tomorrow? I know a nice little place that that a friend recently told me about; it's just round the corner from here, might do us some good to get out?

(The trainee's name is Martin, and I'd say he's doing better than most in his shoes.)

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 13:30  
Subject: Apologies!

(Right, shouldn't have bad-mouthed the lad. Still, the timetabling offer stands.)

Tomorrow's great, wherever you like. Meet me at the main entrance, noon?

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 13:41  
Subject: Re: Apologies!

(Remorse is good. Next time you're sharp with him, try that to his face, yeah?)

Main entrance at noon. If I look tired, don't take it personally; I've got behind on cleaning house. It's amazing how the mugs and plates can build up, isn't it?

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 13:47  
Subject: Wait...

That doesn't sound like the Molly I know. 

Are you _sure_ everything's all right? I mean, I know...

I know it's been hard on you, and I just don't know what to do.

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 13:50  
Subject: Re: Wait...

Last I checked, it's been hard on everybody who gives a fuck. Even you. Look, I don't want to spend tomorrow rehashing it all; I've had enough of people sending flowers to the mortuary and avoiding eye contact when I pass by. I'd appreciate the chance to 'catch up', as you put it, but that's...all.

~ Molly

 

*

 

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:02  
Subject: Re: Re: Wait...

Right. Sorry, crossed a line there. See you tomorrow, and congrats on the new gent. Just - go easy, I couldn't stand to see your heart broken all over again. I understand the necessity in times like these, but be careful.

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:05  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Wait...

New gent?!! Is this some kind of sick joke?

 

*

 

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:09  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Wait...

We've clearly got some crossed wires here. Ellen from Psych passes yours when she takes the scenic route home, and she says she could hear you shouting from out on the pavement, said it sounded like a lovers' spat. She's worried about you, too, getting mixed up with somebody this soon. I hope she's got it wrong.

Molly, we're concerned for you. That's all.

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:12  
Subject: I can't believe this.

So pleased to hear you've formed a committee on my welfare.

Maybe lunch should wait till you've all got your heads out of your arses.

 

*

 

From: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:21  
Subject: Re: I can't believe this.

You're one in a million, Molly. Never change.

Lunch is on me.

Mike

 

*

 

From: molly.hooper@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
To: michael.stamford@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
Date: 20 July 2011 14:24  
Subject: Re: Re: I can't believe this.

I don't plan on it.

And lunch is on you for the rest of the week.

~ Molly

* * *

_This is breaking and entering_ , Molly told herself, breathing deeply as she rang the doorbell a third and final time. She waited five more minutes, shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and then drew Sherlock's keys from her coat pocket. Such a smooth turn; hardly even a _click_ of resistance. The door opened.

"Hello?" she called, because, well, better safe than sorry. "John? John, are you—"

"Ooh! Bless," said Mrs. Hudson, popping her head through the half-open door at the top of the stairs. "You gave me quite a fright, dear. John's off at supper with his sister, God knows how she twisted his arm into _that_. How on earth did you get in?"

"It was open," Molly lied, grateful she'd stuck Sherlock's keys back in her pocket.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and beckoned to her, opening the door to 221B a fraction wider.

"Come in," she said. "There's no use letting a perfectly good kitchen go to waste."

Molly ascended the stairs, acutely aware that the air was heavy with dust. Her sinuses prickled, and she wondered if it wasn't solely her allergies acting up. The memory of Christmas loomed close. She stood in the doorway and blinked to clear her eyes.

"Melancholy, isn't it?" said Mrs. Hudson, drifting back to the kitchen, rag in hand.

"It's as if he never left," Molly said, picking her way between stacks of magazines and piles of paper. Sherlock's violin sat abandoned in his chair, bow protruding off the cushion. Startling, to realize she'd only heard him play once. She ran her fingers across the horsehair, smudged fine dust of rosin between her thumb and forefinger.

However much he missed it, she _mustn't_ take him that.

"It's as if neither of them did," Mrs. Hudson replied, busying herself with the kettle, but not before stealing a suspicious peek insdie. "John's taken up residence on my sofa. I wouldn't mind so much, if not for the teacups..."

Molly covered her mouth, forcing her laughter into an utterly unconvincing sob.

"Oh, don't you start," Mrs. Hudson lamented over the running tap. "I'll join right in!"

"Sorry," Molly said, and by the time Mrs. Hudson pottered back into the room with a tea tray, she supposed her composure made perfect sense. _Close call_. 

She brushed off the sofa cushions so they'd have a place to sit down, and it wasn't until she followed Mrs. Hudson's apologetic frown that she realized the coffee table needed clearing. She held the pile of medical journals and case notebooks in her lap while Mrs. Hudson poured them strong draughts of Lady Grey.

"You might as well take them. John can't abide reminders, and they're collecting dust."

Molly bit her lip; it was too easy, too good to be true.

"There might be something of use to me," she said. "Are you sure he won't—"

"Miss them? Heavens, no," said Mrs. Hudson, spooning two lumps of sugar into Molly's mug. "Harry came over last week to help me start cleaning; she's lovely, really, once you get to know her. We binned the whole lot he'd left in the bedroom."

Before she could stop herself, Molly asked, "In his, you mean, or in Sherlock's?"

Mrs. Hudson missed her own mug by an inch, and a sugar cube landed on the floor.

"John was forever worrying people might talk," she said fondly.

Molly forged on, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. "Mrs. Hudson, _were_ they..."

"The truth is, I never could tell," said the landlady, taking a rueful sip of tea. "I was so sure Sherlock had finally found someone, but then there was that Sarah, and it was some months before a few others, but, John, bless him, he's not very good at keeping them. He asked me once if Sherlock had ever been involved with _anyone_. That's not the sort of thing you ask an old friend of your partner's, is it?"

Molly stared into her mug, wishing the fine grains settling there would tell her.

* * *

sent that redhead from the hospital away  
with some of john's old mags. will he mind?

 

*

 

God, do you mean Sarah? I thought that was  
over ages ago. Don't text so often, would you?  
He's beginning to suspect something's up. Bad  
bloody influence, that Sherlock, if you ask me.

 

*

 

no, not sarah. this one's molly.  
different redhead. from bart's.

 

*

 

Oh, girl from the mortuary who  
had the hots for Sherlock. Awful  
taste and even worse luck, that one!

 

*

 

now i'll not have you speak ill of her,  
she's welcome here any time. i had  
hoped maybe john would've noticed  
her if he hadn't just been so focused

 

*

 

Your message got cut short.

Focused on what?

 

*

 

no, dear, not cut short. just focused  
on work and whatnot. cases. so busy.

 

*

 

Focused on Sherlock, you mean.

 

*

 

it's dreadful, isn't it, the way you can't  
get it out of them, i mean out of him,  
oh, always like pulling teeth! boys.

 

*

 

Sometimes I wish I'd met you about thirty  
years ago, before that disaster of a husband.

 

*

 

flattered, dear, but there's no changing  
what's done. i wondered if john ever  
said anything, or if you could tell.

 

*

 

I can tell he was mad about the bloke,  
maybe even still is. They say people  
start acting normal again after about ten  
to fourteen days, you know, getting out  
and about even if they still feel sad, but  
I have to drag him. Does he go to work?

 

*

 

molly said she sees him there; i suppose  
so. there's not much for it if he's taking  
detours to visit our poor sherlock.

 

*

 

Okay, I've been caught. GTG.

 

*

 

later dear. not so bad yourself.

* * *

_If Molly had half an ounce of timing_ , Sherlock thought, _she'd return now_.

He took a step back from the peep-hole and folded his arms across his chest, beginning another slow count to sixty. The two men waiting outside shared Molly's particular curse ( _i.e._ , him), and he'd been hoping he'd never have to put up with a visit from both of them at once. _If wishes were horses, then beggars might ride_.

"If you please," called Mycroft in bored, condescending tones, "open the door!"

"Over my dead body!" Sherlock shouted back, and then thumped his forehead against the jamb. That sort of thing was going to get him a right royal bollocking, and the last thing he needed was Molly's neighbors calling in a disturbance. "I mean, yes, sorry," he amended, throwing the bolt. " _Do_ come in. It's drafty out there."

Sherlock had half expected Lestrade's right hook (to which he was no stranger), but, instead, Mycroft caught him by the collar and slammed him against the wall before the DI could even croak out whatever goggle-eyed reaction he couldn't seem to swallow.

"Listen carefully," said Mycroft in a low, dangerous voice (about which Sherlock had quite preferred to forget). "If you think this is a game, you had better think again—no great difficulty, I'm certain, given that's all you've got now to pass the time. You've evaded me once in this charade, but it _will not_ happen again. If you can't keep your head—or your voice, for that matter—down, I shall expend every resource at my disposal to see to it that you're locked out of daylight's way, never mind _harm's_ , until my operatives have seen to it that the remainder of James Moriarty's network have been dispatched, up to and including Sebastian Moran. _Do you understand?_ "

The room was silent as a stone, save for Lestrade's helpless bark of laughter.

"Does Donovan know why a not inconsiderable number of her team have been assigned to stake out Miss Hooper's flat at all hours?" Sherlock asked, peering around Mycroft's shoulder to glare at Lestrade. Mycroft still hadn't let go of him.

"As far as she's concerned, it's because Molly, as the one who performed an autopsy on the ill-fated Sherlock Holmes, doesn't want anybody nosing about," said Lestrade. "Papparazzi, stalkers...horrible business, the interest you've generated in the media."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a meaningful look, loosening his grasp. Sherlock shook him off.

"I suppose they'll have latched onto the tragic romance angle," he said.

"Not yet," said Lestrade. "We'll keep it that way. _Christ_ , Sherlock, the nerve you've got. The nerve _Molly's_ got." He glanced at Mycroft. "Hell, the nerve _all_ of you—"

"Needs must," said Mycroft, simply. "They'll be off their guard now. Aimless. Waiting to see if Moran will pick up where his fallen master has left off, or if he'll simply lose interest. We hope for the latter, of course. Fewer complications."

"Something tells me you hadn't counted on him as a _complication_ back when we began to hash this out as an eventuality," Sherlock muttered, setting his shirt to rights. 

Lestrade looked so genuinely stricken that he almost felt sorry.

"How could you have done this to John and to Mrs. Hudson, of all people?"

Mycroft gave the closest thing to an eye-roll of which Sherlock believed him capable.

"Do you think it was easy?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. "Do you think I _wanted_ —"

Fortunately, all Sherlock got was another slamming against the same bit of wall.

"I don't know what goes on in that head of yours—now least of all, you berk! Have you been spying on him, Sherlock? Following him about at a safe distance? Seen the heart-wrenching stuff he leaves for you at the grave? It's stopped vanishing ever since you holed up here, so I guess you're some weeks out of date on all fronts."

 _Thanks to you lot_ , thought Sherlock, bitterly, _I am_.

"Nothing to say for yourself, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft. "Nothing at all?"

"To Lestrade? I'm sorry," said Sherlock. "To you? Dream on." 

"The internet's been such a dreadful influence," lamented Mycroft.

Lestrade let go of Sherlock, and, unexpectedly, caught him again in a fierce, awkward embrace. Sherlock blinked and let his hands form loose fists beneath Lestrade's shoulder blades, meeting his brother's wan smile with a questioning frown.

"Good to have you back, mate," said Lestrade, gruffly. "Never thought I'd say that."

Just then, the door clicked open, and Molly blinked at them all for several seconds.

"Right," she said. "What did I miss?"

"You're late," said Sherlock, accusingly. 

There had better be tea and biscuits in it for all of them, _or else_.

* * *

From: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
To: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
Date: 26 July 2011 23:49  
Subject: Sorry it took me so long, darling.

The blog's lovely. I don't think I ever got to tell you that. 

(It wasn't anything personal, mind. We couldn't help ourselves.)

Here's another thing: you're not paying close enough attention.

Fondly yours,  
An Admirer

 

*

 

From: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
To: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
Date: 21 July 2011 23:51  
Subject: Re: Sorry it took me so long, darling.

Thanks for the compliment. I really appreciate it, and I doubt we ever met (unless you were one of those lot with the cameras, in which case, please do sod off). 

There's nothing more to see.

JW

 

*

 

From: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
To: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
Date: 26 July 2011 23:53  
Subject: Re: Re: Sorry it took me so long, darling.

You're welcome. But I thought I should tell you...

Your boyfriend and I have a lot in common.

 

*

 

From: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
To: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
Date: 21 July 2011 23:54  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sorry it took me so long, darling.

Oh yeah? What's that?

JW

 

*

 

From: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
To: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
Date: 26 July 2011 23:55  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Sorry it took me so long, darling.

We're dead, of course.

 

*

 

From: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
To: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
Date: 21 July 2011 23:56  
Subject: Regarding your not-sodding-off

Two questions:

1) Who the fuck is this?

2) Do you think this is funny?

JW

 

*

 

From: nobodysfool18@hotmail.com  
To: johnhwatsonblog@gmail.com  
Date: 26 July 2011 23:59  
Subject: Temper, temper.

One answer:

I never kiss and tell, but I've given you all you need to go on.

* * *

Molly caught John lingering in the corridor just outside the mortuary. The sight of him told her everything that she needed to know, and then some. Left hand shoved deep in his jacket pocket, eyes fixed unblinking on the floor, spine nonetheless ramrod straight: he'd been stood there brooding for at least half an hour.

He didn't move when she approached, although his gaze flickered acknowledgement.

"You could've knocked," Molly said, reaching for his motionless right hand.

John shook his head, lips twisting in an uncomfortable smile.

"Sorry. It's just—didn't think that I could—"

Molly bit her lip. "Right. Right, yeah, I understand. Listen, do you—"

"Want to grab dinner?" asked John, almost too quickly. "Yeah, I'd like that."

 _Dear God, no,_ Molly thought. _Surely he didn't mean_...

She took a shaky breath. "Listen, I'm flattered, but I really—"

"No, no, God, no, I didn't mean it like that, _no_ ," John said.

"That's good," said Molly, relief washing over her. "Brilliant, actually. Yes, let's."

John let go of her hand and reached for the door. "After you," he said.

 _Even now_ , Molly thought, flinching as cold wind hit her, _I can smell that cigarette_.

They didn't talk much on the way to Fleet Street. If John had any inkling of where Molly was taking him, he certainly didn't seem to object; if anything, he seemed relieved that the decision was entirely out of his hands. Molly liked the noisy, careless atmosphere that Wagamama would doubtless provide at this hour, and she as sure that picking up an extra order for Sherlock under the guise of wanting it for lunch the next day wouldn't arouse much suspicion. _Chicken Chilli Men, hold the courgettes_.

"Come here often?" John asked as they settled on opposite sides of the long table.

"Only when I need to hear myself think," Molly said. "Dreadful how quiet work is."

"Sherlock liked busy places for important conversations."

Molly looked up from the menu. He hadn't mentioned Sherlock by name in weeks.

"He did," Molly agreed. "The caf at Bart's usually sufficed."

"That wouldn't do," John said. "Too many prying eyes and pricked ears."

"Has something happened?" Molly asked. "Aren't the appointments with Ella helping?"

John steepled his fingers and shut his eyes. "Listen, I don't know if it's the smartest thing I've ever done, telling you this, but as far as I can see, Sherlock trusted you, and I'm not sure where else I can take this without getting the law involved."

"What is it?" Molly bit the inside of her cheek. If Sherlock had got careless...

"Somebody contacted me via email three days ago. They claimed to be an admirer, but didn't give a name. Took the usual media-fueled jab at my is-it-or-isn't-it relationship with Sherlock, and then made a pretty hefty claim."

"Such as?"

"They're supposedly dead, just like Sherlock."

"I hate those reporters," Molly said, nodding to the waitress as their green tea arrived.

John's frown darkened. "The thing is, I don't think it was one of them. Idiots, the whole lot. Whoever it was, they assumed some kind of history between us, between me and Sherlock and oh _sodding_ hell, did you ever meet Irene Adler?" 

The transformation was astonishing, as if Sherlock had whispered in his ear.

Molly chose her words carefully. "I only ever saw her dead, I'm afraid."

"She wasn't dead," John said, taking a quick sip of tea. "I don't know who that poor corpse was, but it wasn't her. She turned up at our flat after the fact, on the run from people who _did_ want her dead. Months later, after it had all played out, Mycroft turned up at Baker Street with a file, claiming she had got herself killed by extremists in the Middle East, and wouldn't it be best if we told Sherlock she'd got into a witness protection scheme in America? That's what I told him, terrible liar that I am."

 _He didn't believe you_ , Molly thought, remembering Sherlock's words. _Or knew better_.

"Anyway, it's the email address that's got me thinking now—nobody's fool eighteen, lowercase and digits all run together, at Hotmail dot com. I could be losing my mind, but three plus two plus two plus four plus three plus four is eighteen _and_ —"

"John, slow down," Molly said, gently touching his wrist. "Please. I don't understand."

The waitress, who'd been hovering in hopes of taking their food order, slunk away.

"Her measurements," John said. "Her measurements were the combination to a safe. She wouldn't have made it too obvious, but just obvious enough. If it's her."

"If it's her who emailed you? But I thought she was dead."

"She's supposed to be," John said, staring sightlessly down at the menu.

 _And so is Sherlock_ , Molly thought, hastily beckoning the waitress back. She waited until their orders had been recorded (she loved those handheld gadgets they used now instead of a notepad) to say, "John, ignore those messages. It's a sick prank."

"Can't," he said. "I responded a few more times, but there's been no answer."

 _Christ._ Molly twisted her napkin. _If she hasn't already, she'll blow Sherlock's cover yet. If I knew she was doing it out of genuine worry for them both, I'd understand._

"If she's alive," said Molly, hesitantly, "and I'd call that a pretty big _if_ , do you think she'd be contacting you because she had her own agenda? Forgive me for saying so, John, but you're vulnerable right now, and she'd know—"

"She wanted to fuck Sherlock, and she'd have settled for having me watch."

Molly lowered her eyes and studied the waitress's untidy scrawl on her placemat.

The pain in his tone was unbearable, as if therein lay something worse than death.

"Did..." Molly cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but did Sherlock want...did he..."

John's laughter made her shiver, curl in on herself; it was bitterness incarnate.

"I doubt it," John said. "But he better not have done."

* * *

Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson, but  
a mutual friend gave me your number.  
How's learning the new mobile, then?

\- Greg

 

*

 

harry has been ever so helpful. hello, dear,  
what can i do for you? perhaps a nice supper?

 

*

 

No, not necessary, but thanks. I was wondering,  
could you tell John to get in touch when he's  
got the chance? There's something I'd like to ask.

 

*

 

if it's got to do with sherlock i'd be careful if  
i were you, it's all so raw still you understand.

 

*

 

It has nothing at all to do with Sherlock, actually.

 

*

 

oh. well maybe i can help you, then?

 

*

 

It's to do with Christmas. Sort of.

 

*

 

you looked ever so nice, not at all  
like when you turn up with that lot  
on the drugs team. you do know  
it's just for my hip, dear, don't you?

 

*

 

Yes, I do, although I'd stop talking  
about it if I were you. Are you sure  
it wouldn't be too much trouble for  
you to ask John if he can text me?

 

*

 

if it's to do with christmas, i can  
guarantee you they weren't the ones  
who did the planning. bless my boys,  
but they're good for sod-all when it  
comes to putting out a decent spread  
for guests. and do you know what i  
found in that fridge before you arrived?

 

*

 

Can't be worse than what I've found in there.  
Please, Mrs. Hudson. I can't just call up Bart's.

 

*

 

you're after the redhead, aren't you?

 

*

 

Yes. Can't sneak anything past you.  
Molly Hooper. What's her number?

 

*

 

come round for a cuppa and maybe  
i'll dig out the address book for you.

 

*

 

You're a wicked creature, Mrs. Hudson.  
I can see why Sherlock liked you.

 

*

 

harry's pretty keen on me, too.  
i'll have her sorting out my bins  
next, just you wait. so nice having  
a strong young thing about the flat.

 

*

 

Did they ever clue you in to what  
TMI means? Because that was it.

 

*

 

does it mean you'll come for tea?

* * *

_None of it adds up_ , John thought, staring blankly at his keyboard.

He'd have got up to make another cup of tea, but he saw very little sense in doing so, what when he'd be up all night as it was. Ella had advised him to start writing again, even if he chose not to post any of it to his blog. So far, he'd typed _Is this your idea of a joke?_ (deleted), _Is this everyone's idea of a joke?_ (also deleted), and _What's the fucking point? I'll wake up in my own room tomorrow, and he'll still be dead_.

Getting himself back up the stairs hadn't been easy, but Mrs. Hudson had followed him, step by halting step. She'd made him a pot of tea and set out a plate of Jammie Dodgers (which Sherlock had never especially liked) before slipping quietly away. 

Everything was as they'd left it, and there was a suspicious lack of dust.

 _I feel like I'm missing something_ , John typed. _Something bigger than Sherlock_.

Using his name in the presence of others didn't feel like blasphemy anymore, at least. He could speak it when he was alone at Sherlock's grave, but then—that wasn't exactly being alone, was it? John knew from long experience that the dead don't leave. They persisted, hung on like a stubborn fever. There were so many dead men in his head it was a wonder he hadn't yet managed to run a fatal temperature. 

_Yet_ being the operative word.

He'd considered it, of course. Following Sherlock into the dark would've been the easiest way, wouldn't it, whether something awaited them there or not. He knew that what had stayed his hand was less a sincere desire to return to the hell that was life before Sherlock and more the intolerable thought of what insult he'd be adding to already considerable injury. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and even Mycroft.

Sherlock, the bastard, had left him with a whole slew of _friends_.

That was his hypocrisy, right there: he didn't do friends well, and he never had. Even now that he and Harry were back on speaking terms, he still hadn't got the hang of being friends with _her_ , and she'd been the only constant presence in his life since time out of mind. He got by telling himself he was lucky to have dependable colleagues.

He'd hurt Sherlock once in saying that.

John blinked to clear his eyes and hit backspace a dozen times. If he felt like he was missing something, then why wasn't he giving that due attention? At supper with Molly, he'd only just begun to scratch the surface. If Irene Adler was alive, what interest could she possibly have in him now that Sherlock was out of the picture?

 _Maybe you're the consolation prize_ , he thought. _Or maybe she thinks she can muscle in on the whole racket Moriarty had left behind. Maybe she thinks she has something on Sherlock; maybe she's going to ask me for money to keep it quiet. Maybe..._

The phone. He had to find it; Sherlock had kept it, but he didn't know _where_.

Under any other circumstances, barging into Sherlock's room and systematically tearing it apart would've felt like sacrilege. Out with the sock index, whatever its inscrutable logic, in an untidy heap on the floor. Out with every garment in the closet, never mind the unthinkable dry cleaning bill, no pockets inviolate.

John stood panting at the foot of Sherlock's bed, let the last jacket slip from his grasp.

He turned down the duvet and stared at the pillows. Blood-red letters sprawled across the expanse of pale cotton. A gold lipstick tube rested artfully where they ended.

 _SO, SO SORRY_ , read the missive. _I NEEDED IT_.

"Damn it," John breathed. " _Damn_ you."

He shook the pillows free of their ruined cases and chucked both stained items in Sherlock's empty trash bin, along with the tube of lipstick. If he'd been thinking clearly, it might've occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson might have wanted something that had undoubtedly cost nearly a hundred quid. _Germs_ , he reminded himself sternly, settling back down at his cluttered desk. _THINGS I KNOW_ , he typed.

 

_1\. Irene Adler is probably alive._

_2\. If not, someone convincing is impersonating her._

_3\. She/said person thinks they know something I don't._

_4\. Implication:_

 

John stared at the incomplete fourth item, unable to push his fingers any further.

* * *

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 13:47  
Subject: Regarding an urgent matter

I had hoped to avoid this, Mycroft, but after the inadvertent peep-show to which I was treated, I can hardly say I'm shocked that I'm writing to inform you that the cat very nearly got out of the bag this afternoon (and in most spectacular fashion).

Not to worry; we've detained him. Please come at your utmost convenience.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 13:50  
Subject: Re: Regarding an urgent matter

You're getting slow, my friend. I've known for eleven minutes.

Let him stew a bit longer; I've not finished lunch.

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 13:52  
Subject: (none)

As I said, at your utmost convenience.

He's demanding a cigarette. Shall I demand the ashtray?

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 13:55  
Subject: Re: (none)

I shouldn't worry about that if I were you. I'll see to its retrieval.

(This is rather fun, don't you think? Watching him squirm?)

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 13:59  
Subject: Re: Re: (none)

You and your bloody cameras. Aren't you going to ask what he's done?

(Then again, you may already know.)

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:01  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Alas, I do not: I only know that you have him, and that the offense must have been severe. It will not go unpunished, whatever it is. Now, tell me.

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:05  
Subject: Attaching an image (for your pleasure)

There was a spot of bother down at Bart's. Seems the mortuary trainee saw a ghost.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:07  
Subject: Ah, I know that face (how terribly unbecoming)

Careless. Has he explained himself?

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:10  
Subject: Looks kind of like an enraged stoat

Says the girl's incompetent, brought him the wrong thing, so had to get it himself.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:12  
Subject: Ermine? Surely not, don't flatter him

I assure you that Miss Hooper is anything but.

A very poor excuse indeed; I had expected better.

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:15  
Subject: (none)

He missed his grieving widow by four minutes. Accident? I think not.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:16  
Subject: Re: (none)

At least this week's Bulletin will make it to press. A bit of respect, if you would.

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:18  
Subject: Re: Re: (none)

Just when I thought you'd remembered you once had a sense of humor.

Do hurry. He's getting ash everywhere.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:21  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Utmost convenience indeed. You actually gave him one?

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:23  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

He threatened to expose my employer. Awfully feisty for a corpse, this fellow.

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:24  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

Come now, would it kill the great British public to know?

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:27  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

No, but it's killing _him_ , a fact to which I quite object.

(As for _your_ brat here, he can puff away for all I care.)

 

*

 

From: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
To: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:29  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

I do you sufficient favours that it's in your interest to care.

Eight minutes. I'll be there.

 

*

 

From: equerry@royal.gov.uk  
To: m.holmes@royal.gov.uk  
Date: 30 July 2011 14:31  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (none)

 _I'm_ getting slow, you say?

Over and out.

* * *

Somehow, it was far more humiliating than Mycroft stepping on his sheet.

Not a word: he'd been whisked from the building via the back entrance, by a tight-lipped and silent Mycroft leading the way. There'd been no need for the security detail, he was certain, but Mycroft was _ever_ so fond of adding a pinch of drama to drive his already belabored points home. Or, in this case, back to Molly Hooper's flat.

Once the door locked behind them, of course, it started, with Molly herself looking on.

"Did I not warn you sufficiently that there would be consequences?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock averted his gaze, feigning nonchalance, but his heart raced all the same.

"Perhaps not. I recall a distinct lack of specifics."

Mycroft unfolded his arms and looked to Molly, who was bracing herself in terror.

"I must thank you, Miss Hooper, for your hospitality," he said with a smile that was both forced and sincere. "One can hardly expect you to have remained with him every moment. It's my own fault, heaven knows, for not extending the offer of further compensation in exchange for your undivided attention."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. His eyes were already on her, accusing.

"You didn't. Please tell me you didn't—"

"I didn't accept payment! I _didn't_ ," Molly insisted. "Sherlock, it was my idea that you come here; he didn't know, but once he did, I wasn't about to turn down the protection. How could I? For your sake most of all, _how could I?_ "

Mycroft sighed, extending a hand to pat Molly's. Ever the consummate performer.

"No one would blame you for thinking of yourself in circumstances like these."

"Only in the sense that I'm part of the bigger picture," Molly said.

"I understand," Sherlock said. "And I was a fool to put you at risk."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Molly exclaimed. "Where else would you have gone?"

"Not here," Sherlock replied, shooting Mycroft a spiteful glance. "Anywhere."

"It's been decided for you," said Mycroft. "Pack up. We haven't much time."

Sherlock didn't move. "Not till you tell me where we're going."

"If I did that, it'd spoil the surprise," Mycroft said. "Your things, Sherlock."

"Bin them," Sherlock told Molly. "Donate them to Oxfam. I don't care."

"Very good," Mycroft said. "Most charitable. Death changes even the coldest of us."

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked. "Ask him to raise the security detail. I'm sure—"

"You will come with me," Mycroft said, rising, "and you will stay where I put you."

"You and what army?" Sherlock retorted, glimpsing Molly's tearful face out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to reach for her, to squeeze her hand, to apologize. He'd hidden the diamond cufflinks in her bedroom, and he hoped she'd find them.

"All the Queen's horses," Mycroft replied. "And all the Queen's men, come to it."

At that, Sherlock bit his lip, and Molly dabbed at her cheeks, sniffling loudly.

He knew where he was going, and he wasn't in the least going to like it.

* * *

_[Ahhhhh]_

 

*

 

Once upon a time, I might  
have appreciated waking up  
to that sound. Blank texts all  
the rage now, are they? Fuck off.

 

*

 

So polite, Dr. Watson. I thought  
maybe it'd give you something to  
remember him by. Remember us.

 

*

 

I don't need your help with that, thanks.

 

*

 

If I'm not mistaken, you turned in early  
last night. Gave up on the writing exercise,  
am I right? It's not helping you, poor lamb.

 

*

 

What did you stand to profit by  
hacking my phone while you were  
in stealing back yours, exactly?

 

*

 

Do you know what time it is?

 

*

 

3:16 PM by my clock. Guess  
I overslept. Why do you ask?

 

*

 

There now, you're almost civil!  
I ask because that little dish from  
down at Bart's is feeling awfully  
lonesome right at this moment.

 

*

 

She's always lonesome.

 

*

 

So is your list.

 

*

 

Why should you care?

 

*

 

I dislike unfinished business.

 

*

 

my God, my god I am sitting here  
looking at it, and if you're lying, I swear

 

*

 

So, so sorry I woke you, but I knew  
that if I just got you back to it....

 

*

 

I'm in a cab halfway to Molly  
Hooper's flat, and if you're lying,  
I swear I will

 

*

 

Swear you'll do what? Shoot me  
for getting you there in the end?

 

*

 

Oh god

 

*

 

Shhh. I know, darling.

 

*

 

he was here

 

*

 

I know.

* * *

_I don’t know if it’s me, projecting, but I think I see (like translucent  
figures behind glass too bright to see properly through) Sherlock  
eclipsed in wanting, shuddering at the scry; Molly in her tower, rolling  
down her hair from the altitudes to reverse a fall; Moriarty’s poisoned apple,  
too red with its white carved wounds bleeding; John’s ears ringing  
with mourning, his soul finding in dreams the hand that fits his heart._

—, from our latest email correspondence (dated 7 March 2012)

_[Ahhhhh]_

 

*

 

I was under the distinct impression  
you understood what 'run' meant.

 

*

 

Vocabulary never was my strong suit.  
(You did see it, but weren't impressed.)

 

*

 

Then I take it you don't know  
what 'goodbye' means, either.

 

*

 

I think I liked it better when you never  
used to reply. Left more to the imagination.

 

*

 

You are a menace. Sorry to disappoint.

 

*

 

You, a disappointment? Oh, never.  
Do you like it way up there in the sky?

 

*

 

No. Have been airsick twice.

 

*

 

Poor love. Did big brother bring you  
tea and biccies to settle your tummy?

 

*

 

Menace [n]: a person or thing that is likely  
to cause harm; a threat or danger

 

*

 

I'm flattered you still think so highly of me.

 

*

 

You really have no idea.

 

*

 

You really do need a holiday. This trip  
ought to sort your doldrums right out.

 

*

 

Rain, rain, wind, and more rain, maybe  
with a little bit of lightning just to switch  
things up a bit? I doubt it. Boring.

 

*

 

More boring than Mistress Molly?

 

*

 

...disturbingly, yes. I expect so.

 

*

 

Shall I call on you, then? Make you dinner?  
Walk with you out on the windy moors?

 

*

 

This isn't a Brontë novel, and I'm  
headed a lot farther north than that.

 

*

 

No, but it could be a Kate Bush tune.  
(The woman wails so beautifully,  
and I of all people should know.)

 

*

 

Too much information. Thank you.

 

*

 

That's TMI to you. You're welcome.

 

*

 

...oh. So that's what that means.

 

*

 

You know such complete gems as  
'laterz', but not 'TMI'? Dear God,  
where did Dr. Watson keep you?  
In a boot-box under his bed?

 

*

 

Not close enough.

 

*

 

What does it feel like, my darling?

 

*

 

What does what feel like?

 

*

 

The plane window beneath your palm.

 

*

 

Freezing.

 

*

 

Against your cheek?

 

*

 

Like wind drying my tears.

 

*

 

Outliving God?

 

*

 

Worthless

 

*

 

...come now, I know there's more...

 

*

without him.

* * *

John opened his eyes to a tumble of burnished rose gold.

" _Shhh_ ," Molly said, shifting closer as she applied gentle pressure to his shoulder. "Don't sit up. You knocked yourself good and hard, I'm afraid." She pressed a warm, astringent-smelling cloth to his forehead. It stung like the devil.

"I passed out."

"Yes. But not before you sent a text," admitted Molly. She pulled John's mobile out of her pocket, cringing as he caught sight of the cracked screen. "I'm afraid it took a worse beating than you did. She replied. It says, _I know_. That's almost comforting."

John let his head flop back against the throw pillow. "Irene has got nothing on you."

Molly beamed and finished dabbing his forehead. "I do try."

"How many weeks," John murmured. "You had him..."

"I was only trying to keep him out of trouble."

"That's a job best left to Mycroft, I imagine."

"Well, now he's got him," said Molly, tartly.

John gave her an incredulous look.

"You could've found some way to tell me," he said. "You didn't even—"

"I did what Sherlock asked me to do!" Molly shouted, tossing her cloth on the floor.

John covered his face. "Sorry, just—keep your voice down. We might be bugged."

Molly stared wildly around the room. "Sherlock said he'd got them all."

" _Molly_ —"

"Oh," she said, her eyes flicking over to the window. "Sorry!"

"I'd rather they didn't know," John said in a low voice. He sat up, gingerly prodding his temples. _There_ it was, the adrenaline rush, the knowledge that battle would always find him exactly where they'd last left off. "They'll have taken...taken it somewhere," he said carefully. Better any listeners think they were discussing an object; let it take them on a wild goose-chase, if that's what they wanted. "Somewhere impenetrable."

"Very far away," Molly murmured, eyes downcast, scratching at a freckle on her wrist.

"That's what they assume we'll think. For my money, it's nearer than not."

"That place with the rabb—you _know_ ," Molly prompted. "That's secure."

"Yes, but it's too obvious," John said, slipping the damaged mobile in his shirt pocket.

"Then I haven't got a clue," Molly said. "Which is why I never really had a chance."

"I don't know," John replied. "Why do I get the impression you're hiding something?"

"Because you learn faster than I do," Molly muttered, blushing. "Where will you start?"

"In the most obvious _least_ -obvious places. Might have to dust off my address book."

Molly combed her fingers through her hair and tossed it over her shoulder.

* * *

what a horrid thing i just found!  
he'd stuffed it in the wardrobe.

 

*

 

That's not the kind of text I like  
waking up to. Really puts a damper  
on pillow-talk, don't you know.

 

*

 

aren't you going to ask what it is?

 

*

 

Based on a) your past experiences, and b)  
conversations with my brother, I'm going  
to guess it used to be part of a human body.

 

*

 

actually, i think it was a piece of fruit, which  
i never could get him to eat, but here he's gone  
and stuffed a bitten-up apple in the wardrobe.

 

*

 

Please don't go teary-eyed on me. You know  
I can't handle it when you go all wibbly.

 

*

 

harry, what on earth's an apple doing in  
sherlock's wardrobe? it's all dried out  
like a mummy or, no, like one of those  
pomegranates they find in tombs, i saw  
it on a bbc documentary the other night.

 

*

 

That room's going to turn into a tomb  
if you don't let me clean it out soon.

 

*

 

john's got a head start, didn't i tell you?

 

*

 

...no, you did not.

 

*

 

the pillow slips have got lipstick on and  
are in the bin, and sherlock's clothes are  
all over the floor, drawers turned out, that's  
why i'm looking in the wardrobe right now.

 

*

 

...lipstick.

 

*

 

well, don't ask me, love, they were  
ever so odd about it! never heard  
anything but the fights, must have  
been ever so quiet with the rest.

 

*

 

I'd been meaning to ask you for a  
long time, actually, if you'd ever got  
confirmation one way or another. John  
won't tell me shite. I mean - lipstick?!

 

*

 

seems to spell out something, maybe a message

 

*

 

The lipstick?

 

*

 

no, the apple

 

*

 

Check the lipstick, too.

 

*

 

i'm afraid to pull the pillow slips out  
of the bin, dear, god knows what else  
is in there after all this time...

 

*

 

What do you mean about the apple?

 

*

 

done with a knife and teeth

 

*

 

...have you called the police?

 

*

 

i think it says 'i ♥ u'

 

*

 

That's just disgusting. Say it  
with rotting fruit! Sigh. Men.  
Never mind, forget about the  
police; what would they want  
with a twisted old love note?

 

*

 

wait, no - too round

 

*

 

Apples generally are!

 

*

 

no, the little heart thing - maybe  
a circle? that doesn't make sense.

 

*

 

I ♥ U, I O U - wait, maybe  
I O U as in 'I owe you'?

 

*

 

i don't like this one bit.

 

*

 

Why not? Might still be a note  
from one to the other, you never  
know. There's nothing alarming  
about loving or owing between  
those two. Or so I imagine.

 

*

 

the pillow slips say something

 

*

 

I told you!!! What?!

 

*

 

'so, so sorry. i needed it.'

 

*

 

What the fuck?  
(Sorry)

 

*

 

no call for apologies, dear.  
you'd better pop on over.

 

*

 

Why do I feel like there ought to  
be a trail of breadcrumbs leading  
right to your door? This is scary.

 

*

 

at least we're not alone in the woods.

* * *

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and glared down at the tarmac.

"Don't look so dour," Mycroft said, shouldering Sherlock's bag. "The car is waiting, and we've a long way to go before nightfall. Will this persuade you to get a move on?"

"If only," Sherlock muttered, waving the proffered cigarette out of his face.

"You might wish you'd taken it," Mycroft warned. "Where you're going, I daresay you won't find it so easy to get your hands on any of your preferred substances."

"It depends on how easily bribed the staff are."

"The staff, with the exception of such guard as you'll be under, have been dismissed."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock said, taking a few steps. "They're not yours to order about."

"No, but their masters have gladly done the ordering on my behalf," Mycroft said, taking hold of Sherlock's elbow to redirect him. "This way. You see, Sherlock—when I do someone a favor, they're generally kind enough to return it."

"What?" Sherlock snorted. "Keeping me under house-arrest in exchange for my having blown a hole in your shoddy security network? _Somebody's_ been short-changed."

"Be that as it may," Mycroft said, "the arrangements are final."

"I doubt the Royals would appreciate me haunting their halls for the rest of my life."

"Keep your voice down, or I shall have you gagged," said Mycroft, conversationally, and nodded to the driver of the sleek, dark SUV that had just pulled up in front of them. He opened the back passenger-side door for Sherlock.

"And if you speak at all during this ride," he added, "the same threat applies."

Sherlock spent the entirety of the drive texting Mycroft every banality that crossed his mind: _Edinburgh Airport is ever so dreary this time of year_ , _The Queen might like to know that her driver is having an affair with your current attaché_ , _Surely we had better things to do than conquer Scotland_ , _Inverness would have been far more fun than our destination_ , and, most importantly, _What would Mummy say?_

 _Her exact words were 'Good on you, Mycroft'_ , came the reply, two hours and ten minutes later. Unexpectedly, the driver opened Sherlock's window.

"Balmoral," he said, pointing at the winding road ahead. "There."

It was beautiful, no doubt—nauseatingly so. Forest and grass and sprawling hills, turrets of pale stone playing at looking far more ancient than they actually were. Sherlock leaned out the window and gasped in great lungfuls, wondering since when he'd needed fresh air so badly. Had Victoria and Albert found it so bracing?

"The cigarette's still on offer," said Mycroft. "Last call."

"No thanks," Sherlock said, settling back in his seat. "Will you gag me now?"

"No need," Mycroft replied. "We're almost there."

They were met at the main doors of the castle by an unassuming man in a weather-beaten Mackintosh and green wellies. Sherlock stepped in from the sluicing rain and looked him up and down, frowning as the man removed his hat. Salt-and-pepper hair, all but gone, buzzed to the quick. Shiny bald spot, ruddy dripping nose. The man squinted right back through eyes that showed the milky beginnings of cataracts.

"Who're you?" he demanded in a gruff Aberdeenshire burr.

"This is the one I told you about," said Mycroft, patiently. "He wants looking after."

"I'm used to 'em a bit smaller," said the man, abruptly winking at Sherlock.

"You said the staff had been dismissed," Sherlock sniffed, turning to Mycroft.

"A white lie, I'm afraid," said Mycroft. "They wouldn't consent to you having run of this place _entirely_ on your own, so I told them to leave behind someone they trusted."

"The groundskeeper?" Sherlock asked, striding a full circle around the bemused stranger. "To make sure I'm fed, watered, and locked in at night?"

"Christ, no," said the man, sidestepping Sherlock to hang his hat. "I'm the beekeeper."


End file.
